


Sixth of Seven

by Petyrs



Series: Capitalia Vitia [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr is unimpressed with the behavior of some of the Vale bannermen, and he has no qualms telling Sansa his concerns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixth of Seven

Harry was dead. And today, he was buried.

Sansa knew it was inevitable, repeated the fact in her mind constantly during their six month union. She was grateful for the advancement his demise would bring, how it provided a beautiful black-clad widow for men to rally behind; and yet, their relationship had been simple and innocent, full of slow kisses and late mornings, a welcome respite from the scheming and hiding and running that filled the past years. Petyr had corralled her not long after the announcement, admonishing her in whispered tones to make her grief seem sincere. “Or else we may lose them all yet,” he had warned with a knowing look.

Her grief was real, though, and the tears unplanned, and she was ashamed at her weakness. During the reception following his funeral her poise had returned and she was sure the nobles saw it as a widow’s stoicism, the grace of a woman fit to be queen in the north. Still, her thoughts were elsewhere as one by one they approached her seat offering condolences, kneeling to proclaim their loyalty and devotion. Sansa performed the expected motions, said the necessary words but much of the afternoon went by unheard. It was not until late that night, when Petyr slipped into her rooms, that she thought to worry she had failed.

“My lord, I was not expecting you...,” she says by way of greeting. He would often visit her in the night before the wedding, but when she gained a husband she lost his company; this was his first calling since that day. “No, I imagine not.” His tone is clipped, but hushed in the evening gloom. “But there are certain lords I fear we must discuss. I have concerns about their loyalty to your cause, m’lady.”

Sansa tilts her head, confused. “Loyalty? Petyr, not a single man failed to bend the knee. They are min- ours. They are ours to command.” Smirking, he shakes his head as if she were a child who could not learn her colors. “Ours? Not so, Sansa. But I think a few of them may be more yours than you realize.” At her lingering silence, he continues. “Did you truly not see it? All the jostling and simpering…in fairness, many wish for only the favor a lady shows her bannermen, but the others? Oh, _Sansa_. Here I thought you were a _woman_ now, but you remain a blind girl.”

At the admonishment, she springs up from the bed, where she had been reading, and stalks towards him. “Never call me a girl and _never_ call me _blind_! You- you know the things I’ve seen. Would that I had been blind then!” Petyr steps away from her fury, but his amused expression remained. “A _woman_ would have seen that no fewer than _eight_ of her sworn lords were positioning themselves to take her late husband’s place in her bed.” Sansa calms at the statement. “And you in your widow’s black, no less. How shameful,” Petyr tuts.

“It makes no difference. The more affection they bear for me the more-” “The more what, sweetling?” He cuts in. “The more they will fight for you? And what should they do when you remarry and it is not them? Or when you choose to rule alone? How far will their affections go _then_?” Now it is Baelish moving forward as Sansa retreats under his questions. She is brought up short by the brush of her duvet against her calves, but Petyr keeps advancing until he presses firmly against her, looking down at her through his lashes. “I- I don’t know, my lord,” she stammers.

“I can guess,” his voice drops to a velvety caress. He hasn’t spoken to her like that in months, and even then it was with the aid of a dry red wine. “You do not need the likes of them. You need men who will devote every breath to your victory, who will know when to-” Sansa quirks an auburn brow. “When to stand aside and watch me wed another? My lord?” There is a wry smile on her lips at the sight of Petyr agape in front of her. “Be I a woman or a girl, your envy is unmistakable,” she declares with a laugh in her voice.

“Yes.” Now his voice falls an octave. “And perhaps you shall give them a chance to practice their loyalty,” he surmises, threading his arms around her waist. “Petyr...,” Sansa begins, but he shushes her. He presses his lips to her collarbone once, twice, a third time, almost reverently working his way to the crook of her neck. Sansa sighs and tilts her head back, remembering for a moment how Harry would kiss her, until Petyr’s fingers tighten on her hips, digging into her flesh to the bone. She gasps and jerks her chin down and then his mouth is on hers, his tongue sliding between her lips still opened in surprise. Petyr grinds his hips against her and she can feel his cock, already hard, against her thigh. The movement pushes her backwards and she throws her arms around his torso, but it is too late and she tumbles back on the bed, pulling him onto her with a thud.

Petyr pulls loose and gasps out, “Are you hurt?” Sansa shakes her head and his mouth latches onto her shoulder as he shoves her further across the mattress. Teeth scraping her skin, one of Petyr’s hands ghosts under her shift, dragging up to the junction of her thighs and bunching the fabric at her waist. His stubble scrapes against her as he smiles to find her already wet. Sansa groans as his slides a slender finger into her and curls it against her walls; her hands twist anxiously at his breeches, clutching and yanking at any scrap of fabric as she attempts to strip him.

One hand occupied, Petyr slips his other between their hips to help in the undressing. All at once she feels him warm against her pelvis and she curves her hips up at the contact. Sansa weaves her fingers in his graying hair and pulls his mouth to hers, their tongues slipping against each other. A second finger joins the first as his thumb draws deliberate circles across her clit. She turns her attention to his shirt, a simple tunic already loosened for the night; at her insistent tugging, Petyr breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers from her, letting Sansa yank the shirt free. Her shift soon joins it on the floor.

Drawing back, Petyr braces his arms at her shoulders, pinning her to the bed. She wriggles, unused to the rough treatment, but he presses one palm into her chest. “No, no,” he pants, control gone, and she obliges, sinking back into the sheets. He looks at her then, the first time since they fell to the bed, and moves his other arm down between them to wrap his hand around his cock. He guides himself in, sliding into her slowly, deliberately, and Sansa bites her lip to stifle a moan at the intrusion, so much more filling than his fingers had been.

Suddenly, he draws back and slams into her, making her cry out into the room. Petyr curls his arms under her back, clutching Sansa to his chest. His thrusts are long, harsh, and erratic; between them, he grunts out a declaration. “None of them. Will have. You. Understood. Sansa. None.” Sansa squirms beneath him, fruitlessly seeking friction against his pelvis. Feeling her attempts, Petyr stops moving and chuckles. At the pause, she tries to grind upwards but he thrusts deeper, pushing her hips down. “Mine.” He presses his forehead against hers and bruises her lips with a brutal kiss. “Yes? Understood?” “Yes…,” Sansa agrees, her voice coming out in a whine.

At her acquiescence, he begins to drive into her once more with a frantic pace he lacked at the start. Sansa pushes her hips up again, hunting for contact. Petyr shoves his hand against her pelvis and she grinds against it, moaning in gratitude. Her gasps and sighs mingle with his pants and groans, hers rising in timbre as his fall. Sansa lets out a keening cry and drags her nails down his back as she comes; moments later he follows, digging his teeth into her shoulder and clasping her hips against his as he spills himself deep within her.

Petyr loosens his hold, but remains prone atop her, planting soft kisses on the marks his teeth have left. Sansa in turn traces her fingertips over the shallow scratches she gifted him; abruptly, she breaks into laughter, bright and airy. “Sansa?” he queries, voice barely above a mumble. “Oh, Petyr, its- its nothing. Only…,” she breaks off into another breathy laugh. “Only…I may be a blind girl, but you are still _just a man_.” He bestows one of his finest smirks on her. “We all have our weaknesses, sweetling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ten points to whomever gets the title (no, I am not writing a seven-part series and starting nearly at the end...at least, not yet...). If you made it this far, please don't be shy and take a moment to leave some feedback -grabby hands- I am new to the sexy-times writing, but it is going to crop up elsewhere soon enough, so let me know if its broken.


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